


A Gentle Touch

by fabeld



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Cunnilingus, F/M, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:09:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabeld/pseuds/fabeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after Apocalypse, Charles and Jean spend time with one another. Sometimes platonically, often not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gentle Touch

There was effort in the way she moved, stiff shoulders and arms locked around her books, worn shields to defend against the other students in the yard.

Classes have been dismissed for the evening but the spring sun rests high in the air, painting the children gold and yellow, bathing them in warmth. Shirtless boys toss a football back and forth while the girls lounge on their stomachs, dresses hiked up their thighs. These are innocent observations, facts spread out like the paperwork on his desk, but for Charles there’s a twinge of sordidness in the back of his throat.

It grows when he looks at Jean.

She’s the girl who saved the world but the students keep their distance, their thoughts clouded with a single question: If she’s powerful enough to stop the apocalypse, doesn’t that mean she can start it?

Jean maneuvers across the yard with her chin up and gaze set towards the mansion. Confident and unbothered, but Charles knows her better than that. He knows her from the inside. The shape of her mind, the color of her anger, the taste of her arousal. He knows the twist of her body as it’s sprawled naked on her bed, two fingers in her mouth before she presses them between her legs.

Her head snaps up. She spots Charles in the window of his study, watching her, watching all of them like the pervert he pretends not to be.

 _Don’t be such a martyr,_ a voice says in his head. When he looks out at Jean there’s a small tilt to her mouth. _You don’t want any of them. You want me, and there’s nothing wrong with that._

Jean pushes a small reminder into his brain. She’s not the sixteen year old girl who was dumped on the school’s doorstep, her parents watching fretfully from the car as Charles wheeled out to greet her. She’s not the girl who twisted the house with her nightmares, warping hundred year old stone. She’s eighteen and weeks away from graduation with thin plans for university in the fall. She’s an adult, a woman, unafraid of her desire.

Anticipation pricks his fingertips as she disappears from view. She keeps her mind open to him, making it easy to track her movement. Through the kitchen and down the hall and up the stairs and through the double doors of his study. She locks the gold knobs behind her, their eyes meeting across the room.

“Wanna know a secret?” There’s a hint of mischief in her eyes and along the curve of her mouth.

Charles doesn’t want to peer but it’s difficult keeping his mind from dipping into hers, a single toe in the water. “You’ve been reading minds again.”

“I know I’m not supposed to, that it isn’t ethical, but she was thinking so loudly I didn’t really have a choice.”

‘She’ is Petra, a girl around Jean’s age with the power to turn the earth inside out, if she focused on her studies more than gossip. Jean passes him an image, cottoned with the haze native to fantasy. Petra, on the grass by the pond, her hands running along Charles’s bare back, their legs twisted together.

“She wants to fuck you.”

Charles tosses the image aside. “We’ve talked about this. Fantasies aren’t necessarily indicative of what someone truly wants. This is the perfect example. Petra doesn’t want to sleep with me. She wants an idealized version whose legs work.” A flicker of pity crawls into his mind. Jean’s mouth turns down at the corners. Charles waves that away too. “Let’s not talk about her.” He pushes back from his desk. “I have a meeting in twenty minutes.”

A set of parents coming to drop off their children. Twins with precognitive abilities. What would they say if they saw her, fingers curled around the hem of her shirt, lifting the pale fabric up and over head. Would the wife scowl and turn away? Would the husband try not to stare at her flat pink nipples, exposed without the barrier of a bra?

 _Stop thinking,_ Jean projects, popping open her denim shorts.

The knot in his throat is thick and dry, skating on the edge of choking him, rendering him silent. _You could make me._

Her shorts drop to her ankles, leaving her barefoot and nude in the center of his study. “I’m not that powerful yet,” she says, long limbs leading her closer.

 _No,_ Charles thinks _, but one day you will be._

Her potential lives inside of her like a hurricane. Light rain trickling out of ominous storm clouds painting skies grey. In five years, maybe less, Jean will be able to grab hold of his agency and bend him to her will, making a puppet out of her master. She moves behind the desk and props herself on the ancient block of wood, turned knees spreading wide. She doesn’t need her telepathy to control him. With her legs, her arms, her lips, her cunt, she has him gleefully leashed.

Jean props her feet on the arms of his chair, wiggling her painted toes. Charles never knows where to look with his world narrowed to the space between her sides.

“Are you shielding us from them?” she asks. The students with a perfect view of his study from the lawn.

Jean trails her fingers over the curve of his head. Her hands settle on his shoulders and she tugs him forward, close enough for her scent to consume him.

He’s drowning, drunk, and dumb. “That’s your job, love. Practice makes perfect and all that.”

Jean laughs and Charles maps the contraction of her stomach with the palm of his hand.

“Do you trust that I won’t mess up?” _Do you trust me?_

Charles nuzzles his nose against her stomach, his mouth centimeters above the curve of her navel. He kisses the patch of skin, tongue slipping out between his lips. Jean’s fingers curl like nails, scraping the fabric across his shoulders.

_Of course I trust you._

He can feel the wave of her power spreading like cloth over a table. She’s blinding the students, turning their heads, implanting a false view. Charles’s empty study as seen from the window. The students will gaze upon his chair-less desk, his overstuffed bookshelf, and the bar globe by the record player. They will not see Jean’s hands resting against the back of his neck as his mouth trails lower, lower, to the lips between her legs.

Jean’s back seizes up, mouth parted as he licks between them. She tastes of a thin layer of sweat, not sweet but one that’s her own. He presses his tongue flat against her clit. She bucks up and he grabs her hips, pinning them to the desk.

She’s always vocal, moans loud and fervent, his name spilling like a chant from her tongue. Or rather, his title. Jean’s never called him Charles. With her nails digging into his arms she says, “Yes, Professor. Fuck.”

The pop of a single obscene word encourages him to move lower, tongue leaving her clit to lap at the opening of her cunt. Another moan, another scratch against his neck. Jean parts her knees wider and lifts her hips, pushing against his hold.

“Please,” she says, high pitched and desperate. _Please_.

Charles slides his hands up the sides of her thighs and Jean releases his arms. Feet curled on the arms of his chair, she grabs the edge of the desk and fucks her hips upward. She moves in a circle and in a curve, chasing the motion of his tongue. Charles sticks the tip inside her and Jean screams.

He doesn’t get erections, not anymore, but the swell of arousal remains. His mind’s rife with it, a blood red coverlet that wraps around his hedonic hotspots like a scarf. If he reaches out, grazes the edge of Jean’s mind, he can feel the weight of his tongue against her, how it feels to be licked open from the inside.

“I’m going to come,” she says.

Charles looks up to watch her eyes screw shut. Her hand leaves the edge of the desk and she places it against his head, keeping him there, buried between her legs.

He tells her, _There’s no where else I want to be_ , and it’s enough to pull her apart.

Jean’s orgasms are bright balls of lightening. White hot and sharp enough to tear through his memories. Charles allows it, he always does, submerging himself until a layer of sweat covers his forehead and his arms begin to tremble. A mountain of release, building and crumbling inside of him within seconds.

After, Charles turns his head and rests his cheek on the inside of her thigh. Jean’s orgasms always render her loose limbed and lazy, her mind pleasantly blank. He wraps his arms around her middle and pulls her onto his lap. There’s no resistance, not even as he folds her legs together and guides her head to his shoulder. Jean releases a moan of contentment but there’s nothing more to let him know she's still here. That she hasn’t left him with just her body.

Five minutes. Charles watches the small clock on his desk tick down. It’s how long it takes Hank to travel from his office to the study, two knocks on the door.

Jean blinks, a sense of awareness shooting through her mind like a bullet. She sits up and her eyes dart around the room, to the pile of her clothes, to Charles.

 _It’s alright_ , he sends to her, projecting waves of calm. _Hank won’t come in unless invited_.

They hold their conversation telepathically, Charles and Hank. The parents have arrived and are waiting in the foyer. He sends Hank off with the mental equivalent of a pat on the shoulder and Jean waits until he’s down the hall to move.

She uncurls herself from his lap, arms high as she stretches. Charles cannot help but the devour the sight of her, shamelessly naked and glorious in her post-orgasmic glow. There’s a bit of pink to her, a full body flush he wants to trace with his teeth.

Jean laughs. “It’s impossible to satisfy you.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

She tosses him a raised eyebrow paired with a soft smirk. It wipes it away when her eyes flicker to his lap. “I’m…Sorry about that.”

Charles glances down to the wet spot on his thigh. He didn’t — can’t — feel it. “I have plenty of trousers. You shouldn’t be sorry at all.”

She hides her blush with a duck of her head and dresses quickly. Charles waits for her, wheeling from behind his desk.

“Everyone will see,” Jean says.

“Not if you keep them from looking.”

She tugs down her shirt. “More practice?”

“Always, my dear. Now, tomorrow, tonight.”

Jean laughs, bare feet leading her beside him. “Tonight?” She bends forward, her mouth again his cheek. “I can’t wait.”


End file.
